


i will go down with this

by Damkianna



Category: Dark Matter (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sex Pollen, Undercover As Prostitute, Undercover as a Couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Alternate title: four times Three and Six were together (in various senses of the word), and one time they wanted to be.





	i will go down with this

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themisto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themisto/gifts).



> Thank you for that dizzyingly awesome list of liked tropes, Themisto! I couldn't decide what I wanted to run with most, so I cheated and combined some of the scenarios I liked the best. :D Hope you enjoy the result!
> 
> Set somewhere in S2, but beyond that this is all very handwaved. Title, of course, is from Dido. I bet Three would _love_ Dido.

**under the influence.**

Three's not even sure what they're under the influence _of_. Two had—had picked up a tip about some kind of supply cache on this planet, that's right; and she'd sent him down with Six in the _Marauder_ , because she hates both of them and likes to see them suffer. And they'd landed, and opened the hatch, and—

Had Three seen it coming? He feels like he almost remembers noticing _something_. A—a haze in the distance, moving, like a dust storm. Nothing on the _Marauder_ 's sensors, though, so maybe not a real storm, maybe just a little blowing dirt. And he'd—he'd shrugged, hadn't said anything about it to Six because fuck that guy, and then—

He gasps, swallows harsh and too-dry and then tilts his head back and gasps again, harder. Fuck that guy, ha: he is absolutely fucking that guy.

He's fucking that guy and then some. He gasps again, almost chokes on it, and digs his fingers hard into the dirt next to his knees, his shaking thighs; when he tips his head sideways just a little, Six's thumb slides in the sweat over his temple. Six's hands are braced on the side of the shuttle, either side of Three's head, and he's pressed against Three the whole glorious way from thigh to hip: kneeling, interlocked, one of Six's knees pressed between Three's and under his ass so Three can just _grind_ himself, squeezing and shuddering, against Six's thigh—

Fuck, fuck, there's some reason they aren't supposed to be doing this. There's some really really good goddamn reason Three's put his hands in the dirt instead of all over Six, and it doesn't matter that he can't fucking remember what it is.

Six hitches in closer, tighter, traps Three up against the surface of the shuttle and shoves, and the noise he makes low in the back of his throat wipes every other thought out of Three's head at once. Three sucks in all the breath he can get, coughs a little—what the hell is this shit? Dust? Where did it even come from?—and reaches up to dig his fingers into Six's back instead. Scratch him up a little, Mr. Do-No-Wrong; leave a mark—fuck, oh, fuck, that feels so fucking good—

" _Yes_ ," Three sighs into one of Six's wrists, because they're right next to his face. Which, hey, Six's wrists are right next to his face: he mouths at this one, licks a little way up the perfect muscley forearm and then grunts when Six's hips jerk up into him, _yes_ , shit, just like that—

"Hold _still_ ," Six grits out, winds his fingers into Three's hair and pulls tight; and Three makes a terrible stupid sound and comes in his pants.

 

 

**undercover.**

They do not talk about the sex pollen planet.

They do not talk about the sex pollen planet, they do not think about the sex pollen planet; anybody who so much as looks at Three in a sex-pollen-planet sort of way is getting a double-tap from Lulu right in the face. These are fundamental laws of the universe, and are not up for discussion.

(Six tries. Of course he does. That asshole wants to talk about fucking everything.

Three avoids him, stonewalls him, gives him the silent treatment, and when even that isn't enough, they have a knock-down drag-out screaming fight in the engine room. Which if you checked the security footage might look to you like Three jabbing at Six and telling him to go fuck himself until Six finally lost patience and knocked him out cold. But that's because there's only one camera in there. Didn't catch all the angles.)

But it's possible that the sex pollen planet is—around, somewhere at the back of Three's head, when they end up standing around in a space station bar waiting for this Mira lady to show her face.

Not because—not for any particular reason. Mira double-crossed somebody who wants her double-crossed back, and the _Raza_ needs a new port-side docking clamp gyro or something, and this is going to be easy money. Nobody knew it was couples' night at this place. Which is fine. Not a problem.

Three and Six found it out by being in line behind these three women at the entrance, who had a little discussion with the door guy about whether their particular configuration arguably qualified as three couples simultaneously (the door guy had eventually agreed that it did). Six had gotten a weird pinched look on his face, and obviously there was nothing Three could do with that but say, "What's the matter, honey? You got a headache?" and then slap him on the ass.

And now they're in here, and it's fine. The place is packed, so they have to stand pretty close together, and it's hot; there's sweat sliding down Three's temples, and it's nobody's goddamn business if he can't help thinking of what it would be like to have Six's thumb skidding through it. It's fine. Not a problem.

Three accepts his hugely discounted drink from the chick behind the bar—yay, couples' night!—and then angles a glance sideways at Six. Who's doing a pretty good job leaning against the bar instead of looming, except his shoulders are a little too tight across the yoke, his gaze jumping around a little too much.

"Hey, relax, sweetheart," Three says, putting his hand over the back of Six's on the edge of the bar so their fingers lace a little—just one knuckle overlapping, that's all. Worst way to blow a cover is by trying too hard.

"One of these days," Six says, just low enough that Three has to lean in a little, "I'm going to figure out what the hell your problem is."

His tone's mild; but his eyes look dark, wary.

"You keep on telling yourself that, muffin," Three says, and looks away to take another sip of his drink.

 

 

**under suspicion.**

Basically nothing about this is going the way it's supposed to. Their contact was supposed to be here, and also able to guarantee their safety, instead of dead and pinned to the wall of a building with some really large knives. They were supposed to get in, get out, easy peasy, instead of being trapped in this shitty city on this shitty planet with some crime boss losing his marbles because he's convinced the GA's got operatives everywhere watching him. And, most importantly, the _Raza_ was supposed to be back to pick them up about five fucking hours ago.

So Three can't really claim to be surprised when the alley they decide to sprint into turns out to be a dead end. Or when the guys sweeping this neighborhood start getting closer instead of further away. While he's stuck here with this honest-to-god actual ex-GA officer—and he's guessing the "ex" part isn't going to count for much if McDougal's guys find them and run a search on Six's face.

"Fuck."

Six casts an eye overhead. "You could make the balcony."

Three stares up at it. "Yeah, maybe if I was standing on your shoulders. On a box. And you were on a box, too—"

"It's not that high," Six says, inexorable, and laces his hands together in the universal sign for _I'll give you a boost_. "Come on."

"Are you fucking kidding me? Not that I want to strip you of any illusions you might be harboring about my upper body strength, but there's no way I'm going to be able to pull you up there, even if I make it."

"I didn't say I expected you to," Six says, with perfect placid calm, and oh, hell no. _Hell_ no.

"Oh, sure," Three snaps, "of course that's what you think—as long as I get away clean I'll be happy—"

"You can wait for the _Raza_ and tell them what happened, and come back for me," Six says, because he thinks Three is an idiot who doesn't realize that McDougal is going to kill Six and make his liver into a hat.

"Yeah, and a hell of a lot of good that'll do you when McDougal's killed you and made your liver into a hat!"

"I'm sorry, is there another option here I'm missing?" Six says, and looks very pointedly around at the dead-end alley and its conspicuous lack of other options. Because that's the kind of smartassed all-knowing dick he is.

"Dick," Three says, and hey. There's an idea.

Not a lot of time, so he just goes for it: grabs Six and yanks his laced hands apart, and then gets a hand on his belt and swings them around so Six's back is to the wall.

"Three, what the—"

"Shut up and pretend you're enjoying yourself," Three murmurs, leaning in, tone low enough that it might almost sound intimate; and then he drops to his knees in a shallow puddle of he-doesn't-even-want-to-know-what, and undoes Six's belt with a few sharp yanks.

Of course, he's not even sure Six knows what it's _like_ to enjoy himself—

(not that he seemed to be struggling with it on the sex pollen planet; but they do not talk about that)

—but thankfully surprise will pass for it in a pinch. Six's startled and possibly horrified gasp could maybe come across as eager, if you're generous, and there isn't really time to nitpick. McDougal's guys are almost at the end of the street, by the sound of it.

Three leaves Six's dick where it is, but there's no faking an undone fly; it's dim enough that plenty is left to the imagination anyway, and so what if Three has a good imagination? He's the one kneeling in garbage and bodily fluids. He should be getting _something_ out of this.

He leans in close—to one side, obviously. Six makes a grab for his head, which is probably because he intends to shove Three away but is actually the best move under the circumstances. He gets a hand in Three's hair and yeah, pulls, and Three stays where he is and settles one hand on Six's thigh and makes a frankly embarrassing sound.

Six freezes, grip easing up just a little; and that's when McDougal's guys round the corner.

Needless to say, the first thing that crosses their minds obviously isn't that Six is GA, which was the whole point. For whatever reason, though, Six doesn't seem eager to thank Three once they're gone.

 

 

**snowed under.**

This planet _sucks_.

"This planet sucks," Three says.

"It's not my favorite," Six agrees, in that steady mild way he has. "We should be almost back to the _Marauder_ , though," and then he turns and actually looks at Three, and frowns. "Hey, come on, let's keep moving."

What? Three hasn't stopped moving. "You keep moving," Three says, but Six just frowns at him harder and reaches for his arm, pulls, and—oh. He had stopped moving. Hard to tell, he can't really feel where his feet are anymore, but Six is tugging him along and that's different.

Harder. In a bad way.

"I don't like this," Three says, dimly aware that it comes out kind of whiny but too cold to actually waste energy being embarrassed about it.

"Yeah, I don't either," Six says grimly, hand tight on Three's arm. He's not that much taller than Three, but—but wider; sturdier. Steadier. There's more of him. Maybe that's why his palm feels so much warmer than Three's arm, even through Three's jacket.

Or maybe Three's just super fucking hypothermic.

"Goddamn, it's cold," Three says, to the snow swirling around them; and then it's like he blinks and it's not just snow anymore. "Hey, the _Marauder_ , sweet."

Six's frown hasn't gone away. "Yeah, sweet," he says, almost gently.

The hatch is kind of sluggish coming open, but it hasn't iced over. That's a win.

"Woo, made it, let's get the fuck out of here," Three says, but Six is looking at the sensor console and still frowning.

"I think we need to wait," he says. "Looks like the worst part of the storm is closing in. If we try to fly up through that, we're going to regret it."

"Says you," Three retorts, but it doesn't have the sting he wants it to; he's too busy pressing his hands together, clenching his jaw, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

It's not Six's fault—not really, not except in the low-level way that everything that happens to Three while Six is around feels like Six's fault. Three's the one who slipped while they were crossing that stream on the way back from scouting out the place they're looking at; just a data center, but it's owned by an alias of an alias of Alicia Reynaud, so Two wanted to check it out.

Three's the one who slipped, and Three's the one who got wet all over, and the snowstorm was a pre-existing condition—not Six's fault either. And it's not Six's fault he's so fucking warm.

(Not Six's fault Three would want to touch him even if he weren't.)

Three plants himself in one of the rear seats, and huddles up as best he can; the seats aren't really designed for it, but he's motivated. He closes his eyes and presses every part of himself as close as he can get it to every other part, and for a while it seems like Six is mostly going to leave him to it.

Except it turns out the quiet shuffling and clicking in the background was Six going through everything stowed in the rear compartments, and he's not shoving emergency blankets in Three's face for his own health.

"Hm?" Three says, cracking an eye open, and Six pushes the whole rustling pile at him a little harder, until he's got no choice but to unwrap an arm from around his knees and take it. "What—"

"Just hang on to those for a second," Six says, and he's bending down and laying out his jacket, a couple spare seat cushions, like a—wait—

"No, come on, the blankets are fine—"

"The blankets are insulation," Six says, and then, raising an eyebrow and elaborating, "Which means they only work if you're generating some heat in the first place."

"Bad design choice," Three mutters, but, fuck. It looks good, the bed-thing Six is making on the floor—soft. Six is warm; Three knows that. And Three's so fucking tired.

"Come on," Six says, not unkind. And it was hard, so hard, slogging all the way here through the snow; by contrast, it's the easiest thing in the world to let Six manhandle Three up and out of the shuttle seat, to lie down on the floor. One blanket over them, two, three, and then Six goes still for a second before easing just that much nearer, a long broad line of heat against Three's back.

"Shit, you're warm," Three hears himself say, and he can _feel_ Six's breath come out on a huff—a laugh—against the back of his neck.

"And you're a damn icicle," Six says.

His voice, Three thinks, sounds as warm as he feels, just then. Which makes no sense. Probably the hypothermia talking.

"Go to sleep," Six adds, and Three is so fucking tired; he relaxes back into Six, and does.

 

 

**buckling under.**

Three totally loses count of how many times they've hit him. He just waits for it to stop, and when it does he spits out all the blood that collected in his mouth while they were doing it. And also maybe part of a tooth. He's not sure.

He's not letting himself listen to the questions they're asking, because if he did then he might start answering them. He focuses on the nasty slick taste of bile in the back of his throat, and the ragged edge where, yeah, he totally has broken a tooth, and how much it fucking hurts.

Which is: a crapload.

They get frustrated with his silence and hit him some more, harder, until he's really hanging from the shackles instead of standing there with his arms in them. One of them kicks him in the side and something cracks, and if they're graduating to breaking bones, that's not good.

They're not expecting Six.

Three's not expecting Six, truth be told. Three's not expecting anybody. But Six comes anyhow, and boy, is it ever something to see.

The only real warning is a few distant shots, and there's a lot of shooting around here. But then all at once the door goes flying, and Six is there in the space where it was, stern and inexorable and heavily armed, the very wrath of God.

Three revels blearily in the sound of somebody _other_ than him screaming in fear and pain, and then instead of being across the room Six is next to him, and everybody who isn't Six is on the floor.

"That was awesome," Three tells him, a little garbled around the broken tooth.

"I try," Six says quietly, and then loops an arm around Three before Three can tell him not to.

 

 

When Six has gotten the shackles off and Three's done throwing up—not fun with a cracked rib, if there was a question about that—Six hoists Three up again a little more carefully, and they get moving.

Three loses some time: they're walking and then they aren't; on the _Marauder_ and then they aren't; in the infirmary, all at once, with the lights shining down bright and the android talking somewhere. And then the android jabs him in the neck, and he's under for real.

 

 

When he wakes up again, the android's gone. He also feels about three thousand times better—which means "like refried shit", but that's a huge fucking improvement.

The infirmary's bland and impersonal, and also the way Three is lying, he can't see the door. He makes a calculated assessment and eases himself off the bed, waits through the head rush and the initial wobbliness in the knees, and then gets the hell out of there.

And at first he doesn't think anybody noticed—but Six must have checked up, or asked the android to keep tabs on him, because when he gets to the corridor outside his quarters, the guy is already there. Figures.

"Hey," Six says quietly. "You okay?"

"Peachy," Three tells him, and then raises an eyebrow at him until he moves out from between Three and the keypad for the door.

"Yeah?" Six says. "You looked pretty rough. Still do—and the android said—"

"Yeah, well, what the hell does she know?" Three says, and shoulders past Six and through his door the second it opens. "I'm fine. You got there, you saved the day, congratulations. I don't have a thank-you note on me right this minute, but I'll get you some flowers the next time we're at a station with a hydroponic—"

Six doesn't even have to interrupt him; he cuts himself off with a hiss, trying to bend at the waist so he can sit down on his bed. And—of course—Six is right there within a blink, those big hands warm and careful against Three's back, his shoulder.

"Right," Six says. "That's why I'm here: because I found you beaten half to death and you didn't say thank you."

"Aw, c'mon, they only broke like one bone," Three says, wincing as he eases down onto his back.

"It wasn't just the rib," Six says. "Your jaw, too. One of your cheekbones, it was—it took three doses of medical nanites to reconstruct it."

Three glances over at him. He looks weird: grave and sad and tired; and then his eyes flick up and catch Three looking, and—get this—none of it changes. He just leaves it there, all over his face. Jesus. It felt less like anybody was naked when Three yanked Six's pants open in that dead-end alley.

"I thought I wasn't going to get there fast enough," Six says, very softly. Guy with shoulders like that shouldn't be able to talk that softly, Three thinks. "I thought I wasn't going to get there fast enough, and then for a second I thought I hadn't. You were hanging there like—I thought I hadn't.

"And I don't want to keep going like this. Fucking on sex pollen planets—"

"We do not talk about that," Three says loudly.

"—and not talking about it," Six agrees, "or touching each other just because other people are looking, or you pretending to be a hooker, or whatever else. Three—we can do better than that. I want to do better than that."

Three squeezes his eyes shut. "Of course you do." Of course he does, Mr. Do-No-Wrong, because the thing was he _had_ done wrong; he'd done a lot of wrong, but all that seems to do is make him want to do better, every time.

Three's not like that. He can't talk himself into doing anything like—like reaching out, or—he just doesn't do that shit.

But he lies there and doesn't tell Six to get the fuck out, and after a second he feels Six's weight come down next to him on the bed. And he doesn't roll away, doesn't even turn his head; when Six's hand comes down gently, so gently, on that reconstructed cheek, he lets it.

And then he clears his throat. "So, you want to bang now? Or can I go to sleep?"

"You can go to sleep," Six says, steady and bland and just a little amused. "We'll bang later."

Three laughs, startled, and cracks an eye open long enough to see Six smile. "Okay, sounds good," he says, and then he falls asleep there, like that: facing Six, this time, knees bumping, warm and alive, with Six's fingers tracing idle, careful lines across his cheek.

 

 


End file.
